


Noir Reveries

by GildedOrchid



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Detective Noir, F/M, Gen, Non-Graphic Violence, shout outs to detective noir gritty comics and calvin & hobbes. That's right. Calvin & Hobbes.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-10
Updated: 2013-09-09
Packaged: 2017-12-26 04:42:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/961689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GildedOrchid/pseuds/GildedOrchid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prowl is a washed-up detective trying to make ends meet when trouble slinks into his office; the kind of trouble he can't resist. The kind of trouble that can get a mech killed...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Noir Reveries

_Notes: I'll be using the IDW time conventions, so: A nano-klik is approximately one Earth second, a klik is about 1.2 Earth minutes, a cycle is about 1 hour 15 minutes, a mega-cycle is about 93 hours, a deca-cycle is approx 3 weeks, a stellar-cycle is 7.5 months (there or thereabouts), a Meta-cycle is about 13 months. Shout outs to Calvin & Hobbes for the Tracer Bullet character, Frank Miller for Sin City, and TFwiki for the most epic description of Smokescreen I've ever encountered._   
  
  
  
It’s hot tonight, hotter than the Pits.   
  
It’s a lousy room in a lousy part of a lousy town, not much for an office. For a home. But nothing’s been up to spec in my life; not since my partner turned out to be a mob plant. Not since I got fragged for doing my job and my career crumbled like ashes in the wind. Not since my only comforts have been a bottle of Praxian ultra-grade and my old service rifle. The rifle is an old friend, my only friend, that I keep loaded at my side. The ultra-grade? A harsh mistress, but she keeps  _me_  loaded, and that numbing embrace gets me through the rougher patches.   
  
It’s an ugly existence…and I’m staring at a vision.   
  
The bot’s short, no way around it, but not quite a mini. The frame is all sharp angles and sleek curves. Dangerous. I feel a draw, a connection, a spark of something as the space rises electric between us. The truth screams through my processor, as certain as anything. There’s nothing but trouble packed in that gorgeous little frame, and I know, I  _know_ , that I’m utterly slagged.   
  
Maybe it’s the air of the bot perched on my desk, all easy grace and casual allure. Careful positioning to catch the lights just so. The light sparks and shimmers off the meticulously polished silver plating when one leg crosses over the other and she smirks. I can only begin to speculate on the mischief flaring in her optics, hidden away by a thin blue visor. This one’s a tease. A true one--not just a second rate doxy having their fun. She might seem to fling about casual promise and reckless enticement to bots too slaggin stupid to keep their processes straight as she pries what she needs from them, but business and pleasure don’t mingle. I know that. But slag me if I’m going to pass up a long look at that tantalizing ration of disaster. The bot chuckles softly at my scrutiny and picks up a nearby crystal decanter.  
  
Deep red. Strong smell. Volatile. That’s my ultra-grade being swirled around rhythmically, almost reaching the brim but not spilling; never spilling. It’s hypnotic. Seductive. The bot? The energon?  
  
Both?   
  
 _Primus, I’m slagged._ Be it now or a few mega-cycles down the road, nothing about this encounter is going to end well for me. I can  _feel_  it.  
  
Because I fraggin well know I locked the door before I left.  
  
Or maybe it’s that entirely unrepentant look, made even more alarming with the visor. I can’t read her; not accurately. She has a perfect face with perfectly schooled expressions. A professional face capable of affecting any emotion as needed. The kind of face that could be alluring, weary, tragic, and most dangerously?   
  
Innocent.   
  
The kind of face that gets mechs like me shot.   
  
She’d probably sized me up the moment I walked into my own office and saw her perched on my desk, a neat little package of disaster ready to blow my world wide apart. Sized me up, found me wanting. But still an asset. For now.   
  
Now’s no time to lie to myself, though. The most alarming thing? The deactivated energy cuffs dangling off the bot’s wrist like a whimsical bracelet, a spoil of war, a good luck charm. Fearless. This femme’s already brushed up with the law and made complete afts of them, no doubt.   
  
I wonder in the back of my processor if there is any way to avoid the slag I’m about to be drawn into.   
  
Probably not. I should’ve walked out five kliks ago, when I realized my unoccupied office…wasn’t. My tactical routines concur. I’ve been here too long, there’s no escape left for me. Nothing left to do but play along. Play this right and come out alive.   
  
“I let myself in.” Her voice is...rich. Enticing. The dark mystique of Polyhex come home to roost in her every syllable.  
  
“I see that.”   
  
“You don’t mind, do you?”  
  
I could laugh. Did I mind having my privacy so thoroughly invaded? Did I mind such a blatant breach of my security? That a total stranger had made themselves very comfortable in my absence and was halfway to seducing me with just a gleaming paint job, a coy look, and a pilfered drink? Did I mind that any nano-klik she was going to wreak havoc in my life? I didn’t even try to modulate the incredulity out of my voice. “Would you care if I did?”   
  
“No.” She practically purrs it through her vocalizer.   
  
At least she’s an honest menace. It’s the small things that count, I suppose. “Then my feelings don’t really matter, do they?”  
  
“There a story behind that bitterness I’m hearing?”  
  
“Yeah, there’s a story there, sweetspark; just like there’s a story behind those cuffs, too.” Go ahead. Tell me. What have you done? Who did you do it to? How do you possibly think I can fix this for you?  
  
The femme laughs, takes a long sip of the ultra-grade she had claimed. “The Enforcers wanted a word with me. They took offense when I had nothing to say, so I excused myself.” She looks down at her drink, and her intakes whir softly. “Detective Prowl…well. Times are getting interesting, Prowl.”  
  
Prowl. I like how she says my name. Like a cybercat that’s caught the glitch mouse and gotten the oil.   
  
“Interesting how?”  
  
“Interesting enough that when my most recent acquaintances came nosing around” her cuffs flash as she takes another drink, “they were more blunt than usual. Normally, it’s a few credits slipped under the table here, a few inconvenient accidents there, maybe a rough-up or two. All part of the game. This time? They sent their worst through lower Iacon, and they jumped right to beating everything they needed to know out of whoever they got their hands on. They pounded a few bolts out of the squealers, but came out with nothing except a processor ache and a batch of dead-end trails. Until they got at Blurr. Until your name was dropped. Someone said Prowl, and suddenly an Enforcer named Barricade’s gone off his screws tracking you down, and he’s been working his way through the crew at the Ark.” She tosses the shot back, poured herself another.   
  
Barricade.  
  
Barricade always  _had_  been a mech that preferred things like brute force and intimidation to proper procedure. We’d been partners, before my career exploded in my face. Where most partners had developed an effective Good Enforcer/Bad Enforcer routine, Barricade and I had employed something slightly more efficient: Cold Enforcer/Loose Cannon.   
  
I let Barricade have a few cycles with a perp, and then stepped in to point out something mundane, like a meeting approaching. I needed a file. What did he want for lunch? I never let on that I cared one whit about a perp. The bolder ones would accuse me of playing the good cop, upon which point I simply informed them that as an Enforcer, we had a lot of leeway with the law, and that Barricade was acting without danger of censure and didn’t need me as a watchdog. Nothing was apparently as horrifying as an Enforcer that didn’t care that their partner was about to put a bot’s face halfway through a metal wall. They usually broke by the time I got to the door.  
  
I can only imagine what Barricade is doing now that there isn’t anyone to even hint that he should let up a bit.   
  
I’m sure there was considerably more than just bolts beaten out of any bot Barricade ran into, but I suppose that I should be grateful that the femme hadn’t said killed.   
  
I can’t exactly ask the mech himself, and the idea of him actively seeking me out is disturbing since the last time Barricade and I had crossed paths, he’d shot me in the back. To be fair, I left him with three acid pellets in his leg and a hole in his torso. I don’t doubt he’s still burning about the whole thing. Hell of a way to end a partnership. If he’s looking for me, he’s not going to be gentle about it.   
  
“I tend to frag mechs off, true enough, but why should my baggage concern you, exactly?”  
  
“Besides the fact that our joint got the shake-down because of your bad history with that unhinged Enforcer and any decent bot would try to make amends?” She stares at me a long moment, and the playfulness about her seems to abate. “Because four mega-cycles ago, Sixshot showed up in Iacon, and that’s just bad for everyone’s health. Word on the street is he’s looking for you, and a mutual associate requested that you be informed of that little fact.  _I’m_  here because last mega-cycle a mech named Hot Rod went missing, and I’d like you to find him.”  
  
“Mutual associate?”  
  
“Your brother.”   
  
“ _Smokescreen?_ ” Primus slag me to the Pits. I really  _am_  going to get shot--every time we cross paths, someone winds up shooting at him, and by extension, me. Smokescreen might be my brother, but we had long ago decided that it was best if we just stayed out of each other’s way. I have…ethics, for one. Responsibility. More importantly, I have the sense Primus gave me to avoid situations that will inevitably end with me getting a round in my armor. Like this one is starting to become. Smokescreen gets shot at a lot. Mostly because he’s a liar, a cheater, and a compulsive gambler who has a penchant for acquiring things that aren’t his. I can only imagine the disaster brewing if he’s involved. I say as much.   
  
My impromptu visitor frowns at my poor assessment, and crosses her arms as she leaps to his defense. I have to admit, it’s amazing how Smokescreen always manages to not alienate everyone, no matter what kind of trouble he spreads around.“Yes, he’s a liar, cheater and a compulsive gambler, true enough, but Smokey’s a good mech deep down. Good enough to try and make sure you don’t get slagged when you walk out the door.”  
  
“I’m charmed.”  
  
“He’s your _brother_.”  
  
As if that makes everything alright. I bypass the issue of Smokescreen’s dubious nobility for the problem at hand. “What’s this about a missing mech?”  
  
She slams back the rest of her drink and stands in a swift motion, all careless grace. I felt myself frown as she easily begins to remove the cuff dangling from her wrist. She’s much too good for that not to be a regular occurrence. “Hot Rod’s hard-headed and impulsive, but he means well. He went after Barricade to find out what had that brute all riled up; figured it might prove informative. Well, he comes back a few cycles later looking like he saw the Unmaker himself. We tried getting him to talk, but he jammed up on us. Didn’t say a word. Smokey sent him home to calm down, and dropped by to check up on him a while later." The femme sighed.  "The place was trashed, everything rifled through and tossed around. Hot Rod was gone.”  
  
“And you want me to find him?”   
  
She nods. “Can you help me?” The mellow scent of her wax clouded my sensors as she slips into my personal space, tapered claws resting lightly on my chest plate. It’s the faintest caress; a touch, a tease, like turbo-spiders crafting a web. And just as deadly. “Just name your price. I’ll pay it.”   
  
This femme’s dangerous. Haven’t even been a cycle with her and already she’s wrapping me around those deadly little claws. Or maybe I’m not supposed to notice that those sharp little digits were perfect for slipping in between armor and shredding wiring. She snaps her head up as I grasp her wrists and push her back a few inches, clearing my processors of her scent, her touch. I grasp at clarity like a drowning mech forcing water out of clogged intakes. It grants me a brief reprieve, enough to rally against this femme’s onslaught.   
  
“What are you playing at? The truth this time.”  
  
“You’ve got me all wrong, Detective. No games; I have no idea what’s going on. I had hoped you would be able to help me.” She’s in my personal space again, this time cupping my cheek. “Think about it.” She slides her hand away in a lingering caress, dropping the cuffs into my palm with the other before leisurely slinking her way towards the door. She pauses there, resting a hand on the frame as it slides open. “I’m at the Ark if you want to take me up.” She turns to face me. “Times are going to get rough, Prowl. You might want to watch yourself.”  
  
“Seems a bit late for that.”  
  
She shakes her head, amused. “What kind of trouble do you think I am, exactly?”  
  
The worst kind. The best kind. “The kind that’ll get a bot slagged if they aren’t careful.”   
  
She pouts a bit, her intakes whirring in a brief huff. “Such a flattering opinion of me. I’m not your enemy, Prowl. I’m a pawn in whatever this is, same as you. I just want to find Hot Rod, nothing more. Still…you should try to watch out for yourself.”   
  
“You too.”  
  
“I always do. Goodbye detective.”   
  
She’s almost out the door before I snap myself out of her trance.  
  
“I never got your name.”   
  
“ I know. Tell them I sent you. ” She trills at me in that lyrical dialect that is purely Polyhex, and disappears down the hall as my door slides shut.

 

Jazz.

 

Her name is Jazz.

 


End file.
